
          Driving Mr. Walker
          By Suitts, SteveSteve Suitts
          Vol. 12, No. 4, 1990, pp. 5-7
          
          I was taken for a ride on Memorial Day Sunday. At home without my
family (off visiting relatives) I was sitting on my front porch when a
stranger approached. Dressed in a golf shirt, shorts, and running
shoes, the black man had a story--one I had heard dozens of times.
          "My family and I were driving through Atlanta and our car broke
down on I-20. I have been stranded with my wife and two little babies
all night... "
          It's a line that has been used by panhandlers and hustlers in
Atlanta so often in the last few years that even the local radio talk
shows have discussed the come-on. "The wrecker service has my car
and we haven't eaten all night..."
          "What do you want me to do?" I asked.
          "I need a ride to my car and get it from the
wrecker. . . "
          This time I said, "All right. Let me get my keys."
          We drove my car, a 1978 Chevy Malibu with a loud muffler, and he
talked non-stop. He was from Boston...in the Air Force as a career
man...had been stationed in Panama...now he wanted to come down
South...his car had broken down late yesterday afternoon...he had been
walking around looking for help all night. . tan older couple had
taken in his wife and kids...a police lieutenant had helped him with
some money until called away on an emergency...the wrecker repair shop
wanted $120 and he had paid them all he had... "What's your name,
sir?"
          "You look like a lawyer, are you, sir? Do you need to go by a
money machine to get any cash?"
          "How much do you owe for your car?" I asked.
          "Fifty-seven dollars. Do you have it? Do you need to go by a
money machine to get the cash?"
          "I think I have that much."
          We were traveling down Memorial Drive where a Baptist hospital and
the Martin Luther King Center stand as landmarks. I hadn't expected
him to ask for so much cash, whether his story was genuine or fake.
          "Sir, don't you wear a seat belt?"
          Only then, as I pulled up my strap with a thank-you, did I realize
how tense I had become.
          Mr. Walker continued to talk and talk. About his car...about his
life...he had bought the car from his lieutenant...He was "one of
the lieutenant's boys...We looked after him and he looked after
us..." He talked about his family...about how hard it is to have
someone help you when you're in a strange place...
          As we turned right, following his instructions, the monologue began
to blur as I realized that the city wrecker service was actually in
another direction. "I think we're 

gonna like it down
here. ..Atlanta is such a clean city. . .look over at that parking
lot...there's nothing there...no trash. . .nothing.. . "
          Finally, when he said to turn left, I asked him: "What was your
name, again?"
          "Walker. Robert Walker."
          We were now at the edge of Capitol Homes, one of the federal
housing projects squeezed between the interstate highway and the
Georgia government buildings. He asked me to stop.
          "Where's the lot-the wrecker service, Mr. Walker?" I
asked.
          "Oh, I have to call him first on his beeper...I just thought you
might want to give me the money here so that we don't do it out in the
open. ..This is a rough neighborhood and I wouldn't want folks to get
the wrong idea. ..Do you have a pen or pencil and I'll get your name
and number and send you your money as soon as I get to the
base. . . ?"
          With no wrecker service, tow-truck, or family in sight, I ripped a
piece of paper and wrote down my name and telephone number while
Mr. Walker did the same.
          "See, I even wrote down that I owe you $57." He now had my
money.
          "I could just walk on over from here by myself, if you don't
mind."
          "Sure."
          As I drove away, I looked back in the rear view mirror at
Mr. Walker. He was walking away with the same brisk step, the same
sense of purpose with which he had arrived on my porch. I tried to
understand what had happened. Why had I given a not-so-perfect
stranger $57 when two or three times a day I stubbornly turn down
pleas on the street for a quarter?
          Part of it was fear and part was comfort, I suspect. While
listening to Mr. Walker's monologue, I realized that there was
something large, bulky, and sharp in his short pants. He kept his hand
near it. The object could have been a knife or it could have been a
long key chain. Sitting within two feet of me in the car, Mr. Walker
left me more vulnerable on a deserted Sunday morning than do most
panhandlers on the street.
          Also, Mr. Walker didn't appear to be entirely destitute of drive or
ambition. A middle-aged black man, he was dressed just like my brother
would have been had he been coming down from Chicago. He was
articulate and talked clearly about values of family and work-all
characteristics that probably made him seem all the more deserving in
my eyes.
          But, why did I allow myself to be put into that situation? Why did
I let that chain of events happen in the first place?
          Looking back, I think it was one of those moments in my life when I
needed to risk something, a little money and perhaps my own faith in
human beings, in order to see if I was really living in a community
where people do help strangers in need.
          This wasn't an organized decision to witness my concern for the
poor, as is volunteering at a homeless shelter. While important, that
commitment could not touch the 

core of my need on Sunday. Then and
there I could no longer go on turning down strangers blindly without
knowing if I was truly able as an individual to do something
meaningful about the suffering and distress that I see walking down
the streets everyday near my office and home.
          For ten years I have negotiated with my conscience and with the
homeless, hustlers, peddlers, and the distressed as I walk the
streets. Telling most of them, "No, I'm sorry I can't help you
today...but good luck," I have built an elaborate set of rules of
personal conduct: Always give money to women and children who are
homeless; If people say they're hungry, take them to a nearby
restaurant if convenient; Don't give money to people who are drinking
or drunk; Don't give money twice to people who make a business out of
begging. On Memorial Day weekend, I was tired of living by these rules
that have no virtue other than convenience and compromise. I wanted to
know if my own sense of Southern neighborliness, my own belief in a
South of concern for all had become so narrowed over time that I can
now count as my neighbors only those individuals I know in
person. Simply, I needed to know if I could truly be a good Samaritan
living in the heart of the South.
          Apparently not. Mr. Walker took my money and I have not heard from
him since. Don't expect I will. Clearly, I was more of a sucker than a
Samaritan. Suspecting as much, I called the phone number Mr. Walker
gave me for the "naval air side base." It was probably a random
number--a phone recording for someone who tried to sound like
W.C. Fields when asking that you leave a message.
          Looking back, I know that I was willing to run a risk from the time
Mr. Walker came to my porch to the time I handed over the money
because I thought both he and I had promise. He was energetic and
able-bodied. He was someone who, if helped, could prevent tragedy in
his life, make something out of his life. My little act of charity
could possibly make a big difference in his life, I hoped.
          Of course, I didn't get nor deserve such self-satisfaction. Had
Mr. Walker's family been sitting in a car as we turned the curve at
Capitol Homes, I now see that I would have been the victim of a false
sense of community, a bogus self satisfaction about what I alone can
do in the face of societal homelessness and poverty.
          Until the society in which I am an active, productive member acts
in its own collective self interest, I am virtually paralyzed as a
neighbor to stop the violence of poverty that empties the spirit,
soul, and pocketbook of individuals and communities. My own individual
need for neighborliness--my own need to be open and generous to those
who are different and strange--cannot be quieted for now. I must live
with convenience and compromise because I do not live in a city or
region where neighborliness cares for all.
          If Mr. Walker had returned my money, that would have been the real
hoax.
        